


Spoilt Milk

by mvignal (MadameMoriarty)



Category: Doctor Who (2005), Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Feels, Fluff, M/M, manhattan feels
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-11-24
Updated: 2012-11-24
Packaged: 2017-11-19 09:06:31
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 771
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/571587
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MadameMoriarty/pseuds/mvignal
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>John used to complain about Sherlock being too lazy to buy the milk.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Spoilt Milk

**Author's Note:**

> And friend asked me for Some fluffy Johnlock over text. I feel like I left out a paragraph somewhere, but when I read it during editing it seemed fairly linear.

John looked out the window of 221B Baker street. The weather outside was dreadful by a non-Londoner's definition, it was just a drizzle comparatively. For once, Sherlock had been wrong; he had predicted good weather. A cab pulled up to the front, and a black blob ran under Speedy's awning. 'Poor bloke, he's probably soaked through now,' John thought, chuckling a bit as he walked into the kitchen, looking in the fridge to decide what he was making him and Sherlock for dinner. They didn't have a case, so he had been eating regularly 'For once,' John thought gladly. There was no milk, but there was pasta and tomato sauce in the cupboard for spaghetti. He pulled open the freezer next, there were the frozen meatballs Mrs Turner had made when she had been experimenting with Italian food. He pulled them out onto a tray, and left them to defrost. The pasta wouldn't take long to cook, so he decided to wait until Sherlock was back.

He turned the telly on, and watched the BBC news report for a while, recognizing one of Mycroft's cover-ups. He pondered how his perception of idiots had changed since he had moved in with Sherlock, and wondered how they could all be so amenable, with a bit of aerial footage and an authoritative voice. He sent a few texts, asking Greg to go to the pub on Friday, and asking Harry how her program was going. He finally got so bored that he stooped to watching Doctor Who.  
It was a sad episode, Rory and Amy died, and the Doctor was terribly sad at the end. He curled up on the couch, wondering what would happen to Sherlock if he died, but he didn't have much time to think, as he heard the door to the flat swing open, and loud dripping footsteps thundering up the stairs. Not getting up from the couch, he said "How was it?", closing his eyes, until he heard the other person's shallow breathing. "Sherlock, what did you do?" he asked, concerned as he got off of the couch, starting towards his flatmate as soon as he saw his body.

John's foot got caught in the blanket, and he tripped, flustered and worried about his friend. He took a breath, and slowly got up, wincing at the pain in his knee, and at the sight of his friend. Sherlock was paler than he usually was, and his raven curls were slathered around his head in a sopping mess. His Belstaff coat was soaked through, and a steady stream of water was dripping from the bottom of his coat. The sight of his detective frozen to the bone and so sickly looking almost broke his heart. What finally did was the plastic bag he was clutching in his left hand. Through the soaked plastic, you could just make out that it said "Milk" on the bottle.

John pulled the bag out of his hand, and frantically told him to strip as he ran to Sherlock's bedroom.John grabbed the blue silk dressing gown, and a pair of flannel bottoms and a soft shirt for him to wear. As he ran back past the bathroom, genius struck him; he grabbed some towels and a disused hair dryer that Jeanette had never taken back after their breakup. He ran back to the living room; Sherlock hadn't even moved. John slowly pulled the scarf away from his friend's neck, and dropped it into the puddle with a squelch. Next he undid the buttons on the Belstaff, pushing it off of his shoulders to join the scarf on the floor. Sherlock had his best suit on, a gift from Mycroft, and John took the care to put the jacket on a chair as to not ruin it. "Maybe you should take some lessons from your brother and carry a sodding umbrella," he huffed as he walked back. He undid the buttons on the burgundy silk shirt, and threw it to join the rest of the discarded clothes. 

He slid his trousers and pants off, and quickly dried him methodically and covered him back up with dry clothes. Remembering his army training, John pulled him over to the couch, and pulled the blanket over them both, snuggling up to him for warmth. Body heat was the fastest way to warm up, after all.

Sherlock closed his eyes, now with his head resting across John's chest. Though he spoke quietly, his strong baritone still managed to warm up the room as he said, "You know, you should really put the milk in the fridge. It might spoil."


End file.
